Look Back In Anguish
by Deepdale
Summary: Just a short piece, post Fallout. It may develop into something more but it can also be read as a stand alone vignette.


A short post Fallout piece inspired by, of all strange things, the video for Dido's 'White Flag'.   
  
This is by far the hardest thing I've had to write down, but write it down I must if I am ever to make sense of what has happened and hope to find a solution. All my life I've worked my problems out with my two greatest weapons, pen and paper. Most of those problems were hypothetical, scientific, theoretical, and therein lies the biggest hurdle I have to get over. This problem is neither hypothetical nor scientific, it's real, it's messy and it hurts like hell. Okay, here goes…  
  
The crux of the problem is knowledge. I have it, she doesn't. I remember, she doesn't. She's embarrassed, I'm embarrassed and we're both seriously mixed up, messed up, call it what you will. Basically I guess we're screwed.  
  
Not so long ago my day would have been peppered with moments of mutual understanding, a shared secret knowledge that no-one around us was aware of. A touch of finger on finger as a report file passed between us would cause a frisson of excitement. Such simple pleasures. A private look, just the casual glance across a crowded room, warm blue eyes smiling just for me. Heads bent together over a table of results; shoulder to shoulder at the lab desk, the subtle scent from her perfume she always wore weaving its spell on me.  
  
Evenings were undeniably the best. Not that we ever really stopped working, couldn't afford to, not enough time. Time. The one thing we craved, I craved, the one thing I wasn't meant to have. Yes, the evenings were the best. Different. Over a meal, sometimes even a black market drink or two, we would talk. And talk. And talk. Looking back, knowing what I now know I realise I did the majority of the talking, that she never really gave much away, couldn't. What did I tell her? Everything. How much I had seen and done during my sabbatical on Earth, my hopes, my dreams for the future, a future that was so different to the present. No more rationing, no more shortages, no more pain and death, no more hate. And no more war. A future of peace and understanding, a world pulling together rather than pulling apart.  
  
Did she find this funny, naive? Did she laugh at me in the privacy of her own rooms? Did it amuse her to listen to my most private thoughts and fears? I guess I'll never know. She's gone, and what's left…  
  
See that's the real crux of the problem, the part that remains. The empty shell, the husk. I look at her and I see someone who no longer exists. I look at her and no matter how hard I try she's not the one. It was never her. She was just the packaging for want of a better expression. A costume.  
  
She is gone. Dead. Died to save us, save this world she had great plans for, private plans, empire building type plans. Only the body remains. The real Kianna.  
  
Not for me.  
  
I don't know this person, I have no idea who she is, what she thinks, what she wants. And in the few stilted conversations we've managed since… since she died, I have felt nothing.  
  
When she walks into the Institute I feel nothing. When she steps into the elevator and our bodies are forced into an uncomfortable intimacy by the crush of others around us I still feel nothing. It, what ever it is, is gone.  
  
Is it the same for her? She claims little remains in the memory of the time her body belonged to another, hazy moments, nothing more. But is that true? Has all the time we spent together gone, vanished without trace? And is that better or worse? Is it better that I carry the memories alone? When I look at those eyes and remember the way they used to sparkle with life and laughter at one of our private jokes, and when I glance at that mouth, that oh so kissable mouth… yes, definitely for the best if I try to believe she doesn't remember.  
  
I know that on the outside she hasn't changed, that the eyes and the mouth are still the same, and at the same time they're not. It's as if the whole picture has just tilted slightly, moved out of focus, changed. How can this be? How can one snake (now I'm sounding like Colonel O'Neill), correction one symbiote make such a difference on the outside? Has anyone else ever noticed this phenomenon?  
  
I have to get passed this, I have to put it behind me and move on, start fresh, start over.  
  
I see her every day, work with her every day, look at her and remember.  
  
I can't get passed it.  
  
Perhaps a transfer. I could ask the ruling council to transfer her.  
  
But is that fair? After all she hasn't done anything wrong. It wasn't her fault. She loves her work and I can't ask her to give that up.  
  
That's it. I knew writing all this down would help me work my troubles through.  
  
I'll ask to be transferred myself. The immediate naquadria problem has been resolved but not gone forever. We still need a fall back position, a new world, capable of sustaining us. Maybe I should offer my services. Let's face it, I've got more hours of gate travel and exploration under my belt than any other person on this entire planet. They should welcome me with open arms.  
  
So goodbye Kianna, I know you'll understand.  
  
It's better this way.  
  
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^  
  
With a sigh Jonas closed his journal and smoothed down the worn cover. Time for a new challenge Jonas Quinn. Time to get back out there, exploring new worlds, finding a new home for the world your people have almost destroyed. Time to start afresh.  
  
Again. 


End file.
